Chapter 15 #2
The night goes by in a blur of action. Everyone’s voices boom in excitement over the size of the local shrimp, and about those damn figs I scooped gorgonzola over.
We furiously plate the pici, Gia whacking me with a wooden spoon every time she thinks I’m getting too precious with my presentation.
The compliments and cheers afterward are an indication that no one could ever have too much of Gia’s pasta.
I get distracted by a conversation with the butcher who makes the fennel sausage we included in the pasta—the ratio of fennel pollen vs.
seeds—and Anita has to nudge me with a wink to get back to work.
The satisfaction on Gia’s face as everyone eats the boar and polenta is enough to make the whole evening seem worth it.
The chaos of serving everyone at once; the impossibility of the timing with various speeches and pronouncements and cheers for Cassero; the innumerable kisses my cheeks are flooded with as I’m inundated with grazies from everyone in the neighborhood.
The excitement over the Palio is palpable.
I know it doesn’t have the history of the ancient horse races in Siena, but it has heart.
This community is an ancient town perched above an unchanging landscape, but its core is alive and beating.
They want a celebration; they want to band together; they want the mischief of competition.
Anita’s been flitting around all night, clearly in her element among her people, and it warms me to see her like this. I wonder if she wishes she could stay until the Palio happens next month. I wonder how many years she’s been dragged back to compete.
And it’s particularly special to watch Gia in her element. She’s living a life of her own choosing—getting to be independent while also taking care of an entire town. It’s hard not to think I should aim to be more like her.
After the desserts are placed onto the table, I finally get pulled into a chair by one of the neighbors, the forcefulness apparent even through the slew of Italian, and I’m force-fed some of Emilia’s delectable apricot ricotta cake while a glass of wine is placed in my hand.
It’s hard to complain about anything so perfect.
“Is this the first chance you’ve gotten to eat tonight?” I hear a voice next to me ask.
I turn and am surprised that instead of the elderly inebriated townspeople I’d originally been sitting with, I’m faced with an attractive man around my age. And he speaks English?
“Oh, I eat while I’m cooking,” I say, shrugging it off. “I’m never hungry at the end of a night.”
“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “But certainly the first chance to sit down, yes?”
I nod. I’m trying to place him. At this point I feel like I know most of the people in Manciano, or at least in our Cassero neighborhood, by sight if not name.
It’s not that big of a town. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.
His face is distinct: good looking but with those marked Italian features I’m more used to seeing on busts in a museum.
His accent indicates he’s obviously Italian, but his English is better than that of most of the people in town.
“Have we met before?” I ask.
I get another chuckle in return. “Apologies, no! Your reputation just precedes you. I’m Beppe; my mother is Sofia over there.
” He points out an older woman that I’ve definitely seen in the restaurant and around town.
She’s younger than Gia, but they’ve always seemed to be friends.
“I live in Roma, but I came up for the night because I’m always sucked into the Palio. ”
He laughs, and I understand where he’s coming from.
This town does seem to have a way of keeping its hooks in everyone, even in the most lovable way.
I imagine that the kids who grow up here and want to have a more professional life in places like Rome or Milan still end up always coming back for every festival and event. Manciano has that way.
It makes me think of the sign next to my bench—once you’ve married the sea and allowed yourself to be clothed in the sunsets, you can’t ever quite shake that.
I wonder how many people spread across the country and world are always called back to this little town.
If it can summon Anita, it surely could summon someone from Rome.
“Does that mean you’ll be rolling a barrel for Cassero?” I ask, and he smiles wide.
“Oh, absolutely. I’ve been roped in every year since it started. Lately, I try to claim I’ve aged out, but the competitive spirit keeps me returning. Well, that and my mother insisting that I’d bring shame on our family if I didn’t show up.”
I laugh, and he keeps the smile.
“I hear you’re rolling a barrel for Cassero as well,” he points out.
“Yes, they got me too,” I say, putting my head in my hands.
“Well, you couldn’t bring shame on Gia now, could you?”
“Good point,” I reply, my eyes lifting to meet his as I take another sip of my wine.
We sit like that for a while, finishing off the remains of the wine left at the table.
Beppe works in marketing in Rome, at a firm he founded, so he has a lot of flexibility to come visit his mother when he needs to.
He doesn’t want to move back, but his affection for his town is undeniable.
I’m impressed with the amount of local gossip he’s still able to keep up with, and he regales me with some backstories of the various people in town.
By the time Anita comes over to poke at me, I’ve almost forgotten I was only supposed to be taking a short break.
“Lovely chatting with you, Beppe,” I say, standing up.
“You too, Kit. I hope I run into you again the next time I’m here.” He stands up as well and gives me the proper Italian kiss on two cheeks. Anita raises an eyebrow and grabs my hand.
“You know, if you start a fling with Beppe,” she says quietly as we walk away, “Gia would adore holding that over Sofia, since she thinks her son is the greatest thing to ever come out of this town.”
“Hey!” I say, swatting her with a dish towel. “I think somewhere in there is an insult of me!”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Anita says, parking herself right in front of me so I can see she’s serious.
“Only that Sofia wants grandchildren and an Italian wife. For you I’d say it’s an excellent idea.
The only way to get over someone is to get under someone else, you know?
At some point you’ll have to say, ‘John who?’”
The words prick at me because I have to admit my head almost swiveled toward Nico when she first started that declaration. It hadn’t even occurred to me that she meant John.
How empty was my yearslong relationship that, two months out of it, I don’t even remember that I’m supposed to be getting over it?
I keep expecting the moment I break—sorrow for my loss; anger about how he left me; fear over what’s ahead.
But so many weeks later, it still hasn’t surfaced.
I’m worried that says more about me than it does about the relationship itself.
Could I really be so hardened that I can brush a yearslong relationship off?
Or maybe worse—could I really have been in a relationship that meant so little to me for so long?
And am I just distracting myself, mooning over someone who’s unavailable?
It’s hard not to wonder if this is less about Nico and more about my own inability to be attracted to someone who might be uncomplicated.
If I subconsciously focus on the one guy who isn’t available, then I won’t have to put myself out there, right?
I look over toward Beppe, who’s still watching me. He raises his wineglass in a cheers when he sees me look over. I wave back. And then drag Anita into the kitchen.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no,” I admit to Anita, whose face lights up so much you would’ve thought she was a kid on Christmas. “But right now, I’m more concerned with doing the dishes,” I say, changing the subject. “Let’s get started.”
And I turn on the loud creaky faucet so I won’t get any more commentary or argument out of Anita.